Misha, if you only saw how dad was hanging up coats yesterday—
it was June, we pitted cherries and mother had scratches around her mouth.
hands inside her skirt swelled like eyes, though their eyelids could not
gather the mold in the bedroom—a train’s sleeping car, gently rocking on the tracks.

/It turns out that I had freckles, dad said that he needed someplace to put out his cigarettes.
on cool Sundays the rosy eczema of his smoke was somehow slower/

Misha, take me to Jerusalem
—I don’t think Jesus asks, who are we having for dinner tonight, Valla?